


Cherish

by zvezda



Category: Hitman (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-09-28 23:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20434331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zvezda/pseuds/zvezda
Summary: There's no limit to what you'll do for her. And what you'll let her do to you.





	1. Scent

**Author's Note:**

> Written in an introspective, 'you'-style. You is 47, referring to himself, in the story, sort of stream-of-consciousness style. Somewhat. Hope it makes sense. If not, I failed.

> __
> 
> "O YOU whom I often and silently come where you are that I may be with you,
> 
> As I walk by your side or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,
> 
> Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me."
> 
> -Walt Whitman

Her perfume lingers on your blazer. She had embraced you. Her flat, firm-heeled shoe had clicked on the stone with a forward step. Diana Burnwood was not a woman to trifle with emotional attachment. As long as you've known her, for well on twenty years or more, you had never known her to be sentimental about anything.

This is a mistake, you think.

The Place Dauphine was yours alone for now - it was quiet save the sound of local birds in the trees, the whisper of a gentle breeze against velvet petals.

Diana has killed you before, and every second there is the pressure of her arms awkwardly around you, you feel tension twist in your back.

Thank you, she says.

Her breath warms your neck, and the small fly-aways from her bun tickles. You want to move. Can't. Want to hug back. Your hand touches her side instead, with the uncertainty of a young man on a first date. You know dozens of ways to dance. But you don't know how to stand still with her.

The moment stretches a moment longer. Then she pulls back, a look of sadness and understanding flooding her gaze.

It's all right. You don't have to force yourself. I should know better.

You force the words out. They crawl out in a whisper: I'm sorry.

Diana understands. Maybe that's why. You're safe. You won't hurt her. Unless she asks you to. And you remember she has. You can't see it but there's a scar on her lower back. An exit wound mirroring the other side of her torso. Your fingertips itch to touch it, to see how its healed after all these years.

She wields you, owns you. Possesses you. But never crosses that sliver-thin line. She touches your arm. It's okay. We can pick this up again. I want to.

Breaking more rules, isn't it?

They're mine to break. Remember? With that, she winks, turns, and she's walking down the street, far from your reach.

You turn your head; her perfume lingers there. Sandalwood and jasmine etches into your memory.

* * *

Snow pillows against the windows and the Chateau Lafite Rothschild's bitter tannens sour on your tongue. You drink because you wait, because you were supposed to drink with her. Impatience got the better of you, and you want to make sure the quality measured up to the company.

She's late.

You know she's never one for theatrics; nevertheless you are about to reach for your phone and quickly, angrily message 'where?' when you see her - her sparkling black winter dress swaying gently about her calves as she strolled to the table, velvet shawl about her shoulders, crimson winter coat bunched over one arm. Her hair is up, pearls in her ears, her milky throat exposed. Your eyes are drawn to the small diamond pendant at the hollow of her throat, hanging by a delicate gold chain.

She's lovely; you ache. You wish you hadn't opened the wine.

She notices. Eager to get the party started, are we?

Slowly, Bing Cosby's tones weave back into the foreground. You nod, standing, position yourself to pull her seat out for her.

Just making sure it isn't poisoned.

Ha, ha.

You take her coat and hang it over the back of her chair when she's seated - your fingertips brush her shoulders; there's a thrill there, bare fingertips on her skin. You push her in gently. Pour her a glass of wine. Stare at the side of her face and wonder what she's thinking when you touch her.

So. It's been. What. A year?

Three-hundred-and-seventy-four days, you answer automatically. And sixteen hours.

Do you count the minutes and seconds, too?

You're late, you counter.

I'm sorry. Weather's a nightmare and my bloody transportation didn't- well. I won't bore with you with the details. How was your trip?

It was quiet. Met a young man. Maybe ten. Likes chess.

Now her brows go up and her smile dances into place, curious and enlightened. Really? I didn't know you liked kids.

I don't. I like chess. You hesitate now. Small talk was never really your strong suit. A disappointing silence follows.

She sips the wine carefully. Studies the label as she squints. Good choice. Did you order yet?

No. That, I was waiting on you.

So. We order, then presents. Sound good? I'm excited. I can't begin to imagine what you brought me.

You order something reasonable; nutritionally viable without being too expensive. You buy her whatever she wants, because that's what you're supposed to do when on a date, right? You think suddenly: is this a date? in the sense that two people convene together to enjoy a meal in a romantic setting? Not that this view is particularly romantic - the restaurant has very few windows, and it's enclosed, warm and safe.

The snow on the windows you can see is piled high. Professional paranoia has given you insight as to where and when you can eat.

Is it a date? your minds jabs. What does she want with me?

It doesn't matter. She owns you. Possesses you. And like any possession, she likes to take you out of your box and admire you. And at the end of the night, she'll put you back and only call on you when she needs to.

Distraction comes in the form of a gift-wrapped box pushed toward you across the small, round dining room table. She waits. You gaze at the box, try to guess what it is. A knife, maybe. A small, highly-concealable folding knife. Non-metallic, maybe - able to get through most metal detectors.

Just open it, for God's sake! It's not gonna open itself.

Cautiously you reach. Pluck open the delicate bow knotted, its spiralling tails wiggling. You peel open the tape on the underside and tear the wrapping paper (it's all silver gleaming silver holographic snowflakes and it hurts your eyes to stare at it too long). The box is small and unassuming. Very masculine. One would expect something like a letter opener or the aforementioned knife or a very expensive pen inside.

You expect one of those things but not the ruby cufflinks that are nestled in a velvety foam insert.

They're beautiful, a dark metallic color, and the red deep enough to look like blood droplets against your sleeves. Stunning.

Too much?

I like them. And you really do. You like the symbolism and cut of the gems.

You can put them on now. Or don't. You don't even have to wear them. I just... thought you might like something that would go well with most... ensembles.

You take them out of the box, hold them against your sleeve. Glance at her with a smile, putting them back.

Thank you, Diana. Now you reach into your coat, turning to bring out a tall, cylindrical box. It's gold wrapping paper with a floral bow atop it. She takes as little as three seconds to open it - revealing a lovely crystalline bottle of designer fragrance. You can smell it a little bit from here, but you know it well. You spent months looking for it, hunting it down. Finally paid money to have it designed. A unique bottle - for her.

What is... What is this? This looks lovely. There's something written. She peers at the bottle's labeling. 'Diana.' This smells... amazing. This is... mine?

With every little discovery she makes about the gift you remember how incredibly specific and odd and invasive the gift is. That you had gone out of your way to pin down every nuance of the perfume she wore that day in France, hunting for it in Paris, in Thailand, China, Japan. Wading through markets of flowers, spices and stooping in gardens to savor and sample the scents. All trying to find her.

I... had it bottled for you. Do you remember that day in France last year? The last time we met.

You... smelled me. Her flat voice was fraught with disbelief, incredulity. Judgment.

The courage you found shrivels. Of course; she thinks you're mad for going to such lengths. Mad, because no normal human would go so far as to find some way to bottle up her very scent and give it to her to wear forever, like some obsessed sociopath.

She's going to be afraid of you. The gift which says more about how you feel for her than what you're willing to say out loud is going to terrify her to death because you don't know what else to do with yourself when you dream about her at night, and awaken with the phantom of sandalwood and jasmine in your senses. Sensual and warm. Pulling at your core.

You don't like it, you say thickly. Defeated.

Her hand leaps to her chest, fingers tangling in her necklace. What? I didn't say-- No. I love it. This is brilliant, absolutely- I just don't know what to say. I didn't realize... you paid so much attention to such a thing.

It's nothing. Backtrack. Avert. Retreat. Really. Dismissive and cool. I'm sorry if it's too much. I didn't mean to overstep-- if it's--

Her hands cover yours quickly, darting across the table cloth. She touches you and you almost knock over your glass of wine, and it startles you both. Persistent hands cling to yours and you're frozen, once again, swimming in social terror.

She never touches you.

It's fine.

She studies your face with new interest. Her scrutiny slowly scraping away the layers of armor you've worn for decades without realizing how heavy it was.

You really... are something else. I'm really glad... we got together this year. Honestly.

It's fine, she'd said. It's fine.

You're not fine. You'll never be fine. Nothing 'fine' about your heartrate accelerating like this or the heat in your face. She possesses you and you let her because it's easy and she makes you feel something and you're afraid it will ruin her.

47, I-

Don't._ (it's fine)_

Listen to me, 47.

_(It's fine.)_

Listen carefully.

_(It's fine.)_

You think I don't see you, but I see you. You can try to hide in plain sight. I just need to understand. I want to know what's going on in your head.

Your hand turns over, palm slowly upward. She spreads out your hand, uncurling your fingers, placing her own inside. You want to jerk it away as if she's setting it on fire.

Diana, I don't know how to do this.

I know. I know. You think I have a damn clue?

She laughs, nervously, giddily. She laughs like a young girl. You notice her age lines and you remember how finite this time with her is. She squeezes your fingers. Slowly, you squeeze back.

So help me. The words tumble out in a hushed whisper. (Please.)

Can you tell me how you feel then? How you're really feeling? Or is this... is this just the song-and-dance you do to convince me you're human after all?

The fear in her tone is genuine and she looks mortified. You can't let her sit there and look this way at you, as if you're just like the other fake men in her life. You noticed little things - the occasional change in her voice when she was dating, when she wasn't. When she was alone throughout the years. The only constant in her life is and has ever been you, since the day she greeted you at the training facility. She changed the rules for you. She broke them. To keep you and make you safe. She let the killing make sense, have purpose.

You can't say anything; words fail you. There's only the air between you and her and it vanishes with a lean, a quick and desperate bid to stem the tide of her fears. A clumsy attempt, with a rush of pins-and-needles and ice pouring in your veins. You miss your mark and kiss the corner of her mouth, the sticky texture of lipstick clinging to your lower lip. Her fingertips sink into your hand. Ice turns to fire next. She won't let you back away. Chases your lips down again, kissing softly, deeply.

There is only snow and the table in the world and her perfume clinging to your jacket, sinking into the fibers, contaminating you. You are hers entirely and while the kiss drifts apart you spiral in tear how she will handle this. What she will do with this information.

_It's fine._


	2. Touch

She closes the door behind her and hangs up her coat and purse in the closet, and grips her elbows in the chill, looking down. Her face is rosy; glass after glass went down with dinner but it was methodical, you noticed, the way she inebriated herself. Liquid courage. A good wine. A damn good wine.

Are you all right?

I just need to sit down and get these goddamn heels off.

We need to talk, you insist, but she's not listening. Diana walks to the small desk and sits heavily, pushing her shoes off with her toes. Wincing as her toes flex.

You turn the thermostat up and the heaters in the wall kick in, blowing dry, warm air into the room. Better to wait for her to get comfortable. Shut your eyes to the memory of seeing her in the shower the day you shot her in the chest; standing in the shower, the open space glowing with heat and faded sunlight. The room on fire, and she glowed.

The memory faded to blue; she let her hair down out of the bun, playing bobby pins gently on the table in order, with her eyes lidded and thoughts drawn inward. Catching yourself, you turn and check the windows - drawing the blinds closed, investigating the bathroom, opening and closing the closet, checking the shadows. Occupational hazards like counter-assassinations drive your actions; there's no such thing as being too careful.

Finally, you slide the chain lock on the door and dare to glance at her. She's watching you, as if seeing you in the room for the first time, a half-smile curling at the corners of her mouth, forcing her wine-rosy cheeks upward.

Safe enough, you declare quietly. You stare back, unbutton your shirt a bit, because it's getting warm. I never see you with your hair down.

Do you like it? My hair being down? All this professionalism just thrown aside? I'm exhausted, besides. Wait'll you see the makeup come off, I look like my grandmother's photos.

You want to tell her, But you look fine with or without makeup. It's really quite true. She looks human. She is not without faults and cracks and quirks. And you adore that. Instead, you open the wine bottle and pour some into the little paper courtesy cups in the bathroom. One for you. One for her.

That she can let her hair down at all around you means the world to you. You sit on the edge of the bed, and sip the six hundred dollar wine.

But you're right, she says, holding her cup of wine. We... we need to talk.

She sipped for courage. Her red hair feathers about her, slipping forward from one shoulder, and hides her face. From the bed, you itch with the urge to brush it behind her ear, but she's too far away and you're afraid to touch her.

The room suddenly feels a bit too hot. Too intimate.

-You... You kissed me. How long have you... you wanted to do that?

The answers are simple... and yet burdened with the baggage of not knowing what was correct. Wine stains your lips, her lips, and you just want to kiss again, and not overthink. You've wanted this forever. This forbidden and awful thing.

You're still waiting for something, for permission she's already given. The warm, rosy things you think when you're alone with only the thoughts of her seem disgusting when you're this close to her.

I... I thought... it was the right thing to do.

You thought, or you felt like it was the right thing to do?

This isn't easy for me, you know. You feel unfairly targeted, hating this sensation of judgment.

Diana's laughter trickles from where she sits; not mocking, only gentle. Standing up, she steps around her shoes and makes her way to you, and sits on the edge of the bed.

When I was a little girl, I thought I'd fall in love in university and get married to my sweetheart and live in the Alps for the rest of my days. And then one day, my parents were dead and I was all alone. That dream faded, as do most childish things. Every day I felt farther and farther away from the carefree woman I saw myself being. I had to reinvent myself so many times... and then one last time, when I met you. I knew I had to keep myself from romanticizing the idea that you were mine. You really aren't. You kept all your secrets and I had mine.

Stock in trade, you remember aloud. When you met her, she said secrets were their stock in trade.

But... I had to lie to myself that I didn't... feel something for you the moment I heard your voice for your first contract. We spent such a long time over a long distance. Eventually it was even longer; I could just email or fax you what you needed. Everything was simpler. I hate not being able to see you as often. You fascinate me and... it drives me goddamn crazy when we can't see one another.

You sit quietly, letting her pour it all out. The wine has loosened her tongue and put fire in her words. And the more she conveys, the lighter you begin to feel. It made it easier and you thank her by laying a hand ever so lightly on her arm near the bend in her elbow. You can taste the wine in her breath, you're so close.

It makes her startle a little, a sharp intake of breath.

Sometimes, it's easier to think you're a ghost, or a ... a make-believe figment. I don't know.

I'm right here, you say softly.

Yes, but for how long? You probably think I'm mad for coming up here--

I don't. And I am yours. Always.

Her hands clasp your face; seizing you, commanding your attention. Kisses come back again, sliding into place, lips and tongue twining. Her taste makes you ache, stirs your blood, makes you hard. It's not a new sensation; erections are another fact of life and like all of those, you learn to live with it. But this is a persistent kind of arousal that's almost shamefully present.

You break the kiss, half-gasping her name, because she KNOWS and her hands creep-crawl down your sides to your belt.

It's all right. I won't hurt you.

Diana's eyes burn into you, dark gray-blue. The buckle loosens and the button grows slack. Whispers against his cheek, murmurs of encouragement. She tames you with caresses. First at your stomach... then into the warmth heating between your legs. Still you feel every fiber in your muscles hesitate - pulling away just a little, your heart slamming again and again in your ears.

And then she murmurs the killing phrase:

_I love you._

You relent, shuddering in her arms and pulling closer to her. Your handler. She handles you like you're made of glass. Button after button of your dress shirt comes undone. The warm air of the hotel room feels chill by the stark contrast of being clothed moments ago. You're so cold, but her hands are like hot irons. They burn wherever they touch. She marks you. Your skin roughens everywhere with goosebumps.

You give her everything; your body, your guns, your blades. Nothing is held back and whenever you try to, she coaxes more and more till you move together. Her thighs whisper against your hips, sliding around your waist, draws you in.

It's all right, she whispers, shaken by her own boldness. She clasps your face, sinking down onto you - her body clamps tight, pulling and squeezing. I won't hurt you. And you won't hurt me. Right?

I won't.

Have you ever done this before..? With a woman, with... anyone?

She balances above you, naked and still, her breasts covered by feathery lengths of her hair. She doesn't move, but inside she's anything but - every breath she takes strokes your shaft, sensations unending. Undulating walls of silk and heat.

Never. Not... willingly.

Not willingly? Her brow furrows, her hands resting against your chest. What do you mean?

Memories surface. Distant, diaphonous, the color of blood. Hands come out of the darkness and grab you, stroke you. Judge you. Sometimes harshly.

They were meant to be a lesson. To resist the temptations of the flesh, to focus only on the target. The women were to dispel the mysteries of sex and make you numb to them. Make you cold and unwavering in your mission. Every part of them had once disgusted you. Their filthy words, their cold skin, their stinking breath. Cheap prostitutes that were quickly disposed of.

Still you pitied them. You remember them as being more afraid of you, too. Afraid of all the clones. Rather than chemically neuter you all, Ort-Meyer had you conditioned to be indisposed to sex.

Perfect killing machines.

A long time ago... The... Ort-meyer. They brought women.

Oh, God.

Shame churns, and your stomach boils, rebels. Anguished, you wish you could have stayed quiet. She couldn't have you first; would it make her pull away? Change her mind? Feel disgusted?

I'm so sorry... God. Is there no bloody end to the hell they put you through? Should... should we...?

You shake your head, vehement. Even if you feel yourself wilting in disgust for what was done... you don't want to disappoint her. She's taken you, lead you this far. But you'll agree to whatever she wants. Because you belong to her and there's no other will but her own, now.

I feel... unworthy.

The words cling to your tongue, but you get them out. She brushes her thumbs over your cheekbones. Over your brows. Leaning forward, her breasts sink against your chest, nipples diamond-hard in a shell of satin softness.

I don't think so. You're mine, all the same... no matter how broken or tainted or... whatever you think.

And she kisses you, slow and sensual, her wine-bitter lips opening and her tongue caresses and coaxes. A moan transfers; yours or hers, you can't tell, but she's moving against you, hips gyrating slowly. To the hilt.

Look at me, 47. I want you to enjoy this... Us. Please.

And you can't bear to look away. She commands; her face reddens as she works herself on your cock, her soaking wetness spreading against your hips, your thighs. Back and forth, auburn hair swaying, tickling your collar bones, and every movement dragging against your sensitive flesh and singing through your blood like amphetamines.

God, you're so beautiful... so beautiful...

She repeats such praise, yielding to her own passionate yearnings.

Your mind swims in hormones. Sluggish hands reach - one in her hair, the other against her breast. And that earns a moan - she grips your hand, her nails digging insistently into knuckles. She wants you to grasp her, claim her, just as she's done to you. She sweats, her fierce movements growing more and more frantic; you feel your heart hammer in time with each thrust.

I'm so close... I'm so close, and you're .. you're making me feel like this. I feel so good..

Yes. Cum. A command almost drunken; regurgitating phrases you can't help but overhear in the filthy slums of some tenant's apartment, some under-handed assassination, there's pornography in the background, greasy human shapes wildly in motion. It plays in the background as you put a pillow over a face and squeeze the trigger of a .45. Their words merely noise then.

But here, you say it because it sounds right.

She laughs but... not at you, you think. She smiles and bites her lip and shudders, because whatever it was, it seems to work. Her womanhood gets tighter and the walls, harder, and harder.

Oh my God--

Her head leans back and her spine arches, all her body clenching and seizing until you swear she will break herself in half in this moment of rigid stillness, only the slightest movement in her hips. Dragging it out until she wails, clawing at your hand. Drawing blood.

She weeps.

The shocking sting of tears pulls you from the gaping chasm of your own climax - she curls herself against your chest, clasping her hands over her breasts and burying herself in your skin. She sobs and shudders - emotions freeing themselves from shackles that you hadn't noticed before.

She's never been one for being sentimental. Her sobs. They kill you inside. And they kill your passion.

I'm sorry... I'm sorry, I've--It's just-- I never felt--

Diana?

Just hold me for awhile. Please.

You hold her. You feel like you've taken something from her. Something precious that doesn't belong to you.

You've never been so scared in your life.

You calm her down. Brush her hair from her back, her skin moist from her efforts. You clasp her shoulders unti they stop shaking. You rub her spine until she's breathing easier again.

I shouldn't have done that, she mumbles.

Done what?

I should have let you- be first. For your first... honest, real time. I should've let you take control, I--

She's bound to work herself up again. You rub her shoulders. You don't speak, but she feels the message in your fingertips. She looks up with her makeup running, her eyes red, face puffy and pink. She sniffles.

But we have all night... don't we? Her voice deepens, that little-girl frailty gone. She caresses the bridge of your nose, from your brow to the tip.

Yes. We do.

Diana pulls the blankets up and around her, before rolling to the side. She takes your shoulder, encouraging ou to come with her. She hooks her calves around your legs, stealing you into her embrace.

I want to show you more. We only have tonight.. and then it's business as usual. Make love to me, 47. And don't you stop until I tell you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ewwww. Sex is grody.


End file.
